Shahryar
by Mindy35
Summary: Inspired by the eighth season episode "Scheherazade". There's no way to say goodbye to someone you love so much.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Shahryar**

Author: mindy35

Rating: T, adult themes

Disclaimer: Not mine, you know whose

Warning: Major Character Death

Spoilers: "Scheherazade", "Paternity", "Child's Welfare" and probably many others….

Pairing: Elliot/Olivia x 2

Summary: An Elliot & Olivia Romance. That's all I'm saying at this point.

A/N: This story is inspired by the eighth season episode "Scheherazade". For those who need a reminder of the legend Huang relays to Elliot, Scheherazade (or Shahrazad) was the storyteller of "One Thousand and One Nights", a collection of tales told to the King of Persia. The King's first wife had been unfaithful to him so every night he took a new wife then had her executed the next morning. But Scheherazade told the King a gripping story every night for 1001 nights, always stopping at dawn with a cliff-hanger and forcing him to keep her alive to complete her tale. This story is named after the king, Shahryar, who fell in love with Scheherazade's stories, eventually marrying her and making her his queen.

* * *

 **i.**

He knocks and waits. This is a bit of a leap.

He's generally not a bold man. He's a safe man, a serious man. When placed in circumstances that require some measure of boldness, he often tries to channel his father, approximating his formidable solidity and drive. Any composure he's mustered abandons him though when the door opens on a woman with olive skin and dark eyes. Her curly hair is pulled into a loose bun and propped on her head are a pair of narrow specs. She's his age – or maybe a little younger – and that can't be right. He glances down at the name and address his sister scrawled out for him.

"Hi, ah, hello," he stammers, shoes shifting in place. "I'm looking for Olivia Benson."

The woman blinks at him, one hand still holding the door. "She's not home right now. Can I help you?"

"I hope so..." He reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a card in a familiar gesture. "I'm a doctor over at St. Brendan's. I have a patient…who's been asking after her."

The woman glances at his card then returns her steady gaze to his. "Can you tell what this might be regarding?"

He sniffs, stifling a twinge of annoyance – he's not about to tell her everything, not when he has absolutely no idea who she is. "I believe they were work acquaintances. Many years back."

The woman nods, lifts his card and tells him, "Well, I'll let her know and see that she gets your details."

"I'd appreciate that." He nods in return, voice hardening slightly as he adds, "My patient doesn't have much time."

Her eyes glint with unconcealed empathy. "I'm very sorry to hear that."

He lowers his gaze, takes a step back. "Well, thank you for your help, Miss—?"

"Harrison," she says, extending a hand. "Doctor, also, actually."

He shakes it. "Good to meet you, Doctor Harrison."

"You too—" she glances at his card, "…Doctor Stabler." Then, with a brief smile, she closes the door.

Eli heads down the corridor, punching the elevator button before glancing back at the door he just knocked on. He's still clutching the slip of paper with the scrawled name and address on it. He'd bunched it up in his sweaty palm as he talked to the beautiful doctor. Now, he smooths it out, folds it neatly and slips it back in his pocket. Then, as the doors slide open, he runs his damp palms down his jacket and boards the elevator.

 **-x-**

He always thought it would be his children he'd want to see, beg forgiveness from, receive absolution from. He always thought that, on his deathbed, he'd regret all the hours he robbed from his family to spend on his work, at his desk, at her side. He always thought they wouldn't be able to forgive him his absence, his split focus, the long years spent looking after other people's children. He'd always worried that their forgiveness would be even harder to obtain than his own.

He was wrong.

His children are good people, forgiving people. They visit often. Maureen with her children – she has five, just as he and Kathy did. Although unlike him and Kathy, Maureen's divorce actually stuck. Kathleen visits every weekend with her wife and adopted daughter. Dickie, his wife and twin boys visit whenever they are in town. And Lizzie, her partner and step-son come whenever she can snatch a few hours away from the Force. He knows how that goes. He knows his children are happy and successful, each one of them, in their own way. He knows they all love him and forgive him. He's secure in that. He can rest in peace knowing that. But there's someone else. Someone he longs to see. Just one last time. Someone whose forgiveness he must receive before leaving this world for good.

 **-x-**

He floats in and out of consciousness, blood pumping feebly through his veins. His eyes drift around the room, over the cushy green couch, the familiar family photographs, the wildflowers Kathleen brought and the chart hung at the end of his bed. Any moment he expects his heart to give out. To slow, to quit, to finally admit defeat. He prays that it won't be yet, not before she comes. If she comes. He's hallucinated her so many times, held entire conversations with her without knowing, or really caring, if she was real. Without knowing if he was dreaming while barely awake or if he'd died and gone to heaven where a merciful God deigned to grant his last wish. Without knowing if he was lingering in some sort of deceitful purgatory or simply high on whatever cocktail of drugs is currently keeping his ailing body alive. He takes the little pills without question now. He'll keep taking them. Keep cracking his blurry old eyes to scan his room, checking to see if she's come yet.

His eyes drift to the door, float open and shut before registering the silhouette in the doorframe. His room is dim, the light from the hallway hiding her features from him. But Elliot smiles in recognition.

"Liv...?"

The woman on the threshold starts. "No— well, yes..." She steps forward, into the inky darkness. "My name is Olivia Harrison. I think you know— knew…my aunt."

He squints at her but his faded vision and the shadowy light doesn't allow him to see anything more than her outline. "You're Olivia's niece…?"

He turns his head on the pillow, reaches for his bedside lamp. His hand is clumsy though, it bangs against the table edge, shocking his bones and nearly knocking over a tumbler of water. The woman moves closer to his bed, leaning down to switch on the lamp for him. The yellow light illuminates her face, shows him her dark eyes and hair and skin. She straightens slowly, eyes scanning his face and a curious smile on her lips. She's dressed in professional attire – a functional, practical suit and blouse, with an ID pouch dangling from her hip and a pen inserted into her breast pocket.

Elliot sighs, slackening into his pile of pillows. "You look like her."

Her smile grows. "That's what my father thought. That's why he named me after her."

He shifts in his sheets, making an effort to sit upright, and young Olivia leans in again to help. She presses the button to incline his bed, arranges the pillows behind his head and back. Elliot re-settles, puffed from the minor effort but eyes suddenly alert and awake.

"So you must be Simon's daughter."

Her smile fails just slightly. "You knew my father?"

"I met him…" he nods, releasing a long breath. "A few times. He seemed…troubled."

The younger Olivia nods at the floor but says nothing. Elliot doesn't avert his gaze from her face but nor does he watch her closely. He doesn't need to – not in order to see what she's trying so hard to hide. Watching the obvious daddy issues play out on her face gives him a sad sense of déjà vu. Her attempt to conceal her sensitivity on the subject of her father is valiant. She's good – but he's seen better, known better. For thirteen years, he witnessed similar issues fight to be released on the features of a true expert of concealment. His skills might be rusty but he knows how to read Olivias, he learnt that years before.

He reaches for the water by his bed, muttering the morbid question that has gradually become a reality of time, of life, of age. "Is he still with you?"

"He's inside," Olivia answers, moving to the foot of his bed. "Serving a life sentence."

He watches her instinctual retreat, smiles a little as he sips his water. "You have other family?"

"A brother. Ty." Her hands pick up his chart in what seems like an automatic gesture. She holds it in front of her shield-like, without glancing at it. "He went to live with his dad after my mom died. Olivia and Noah took me in so that my dad could maintain visitation."

"So…" Elliot budges up a little higher on his pillow, "Olivia raised you?"

She nods. "Since I was nine."

He sips his water, head bobbing. That explains a lot – the similar stance and borrowed mannerisms. The professional look and tone that allows this Olivia doppelganger to keep a safe, firm distance between herself and the rest of the world. Elliot looks into his glass, clears his dry throat. "So who's Noah then? Her husband? Partner?"

Her eyes narrow at him. "How is it you don't know any of this? If she's so important to you that you'd ask for her when—"

"When I'm dying?" he interjects, brow raised and voice unflinching.

She raises a hand. "That's not what I was going to say."

Elliot releases a breath, places his glass back on the tray with a shaky hand. "Liv and I sort of…fell out of each other's lives."

Olivia pauses, eyes running over his face. "But she _was_ important to you?" She slots his chart back into place, curls both hands around the steel bar at the foot of his bed. "…How important?"

"Doctor Harrison."

Her head turns toward the intruding voice. Eli is standing at the door in his white coat. His expression is stern and voice firm as he murmurs:

"Could I please see you in the hall?"

Elliot sags in his sheets. He watches Olivia hesitate, unwilling to obey. He watches Eli step to one side, his hand sweeping outwards. Neither of them says anything more but an interesting tension stretches across the room. Elliot watches it happen, eyes sliding back and forth between them. He isn't sure whose will is stronger but part of him wants in on the silently raging struggle for supremacy.

He lifts his old hands, tries his best to look alert. "Hey, we're just talkin' here."

Eli glances at him but doesn't waver. "You don't need a psyche consult, Dad. The problem's with your heart, not your head."

Elliot's eyes light up and an unimpeded chuckle rises up from his chest. "Olivia raised a psychologist? That's…oh, that's just perfect..."

Olivia's niece darts him a look as she turns to face his son. "I'm a psychiatrist, actually. Although I'm not here in an official capacity. Your father and I were only chatting."

Eli faces her, hands shoved stubbornly in pockets. "Well, he needs his rest."

Elliot chuckles again. "Eli, come on—"

" _Elliot_ , Dad, don't call me that in front—" He breaks off, gathers himself then waves again in an officious gesture. "Doctor Harrison. If you don't mind…"

Olivia briefly turns back to him in his bed. "It was nice to meet you."

Elliot nods glumly in reply. "No one ever lets me have any fun anymore…"

Her lips twist in a slight smile which disappears as she heads for the door, brushing by his son on her way out. She's pissed – and far less skilled at hiding that – but at least she's not pissed at him. From his bed, he can hear them bickering in the hallway outside his room. People are always whispering about his health out there, thinking he can't hear. There's absolutely nothing wrong with his hearing but he's become used to being left out of such conversations. There's no point in fighting the inevitable. And he prefers to conserve his energy. For when she comes. Because that's not going to be easy, that's the struggle he's waiting on, planning for, building up to.

The fight in the hallway is petty in comparison. Because people are petty and proud and ridiculous when they're young. They spend so much time and energy fixating on things that don't matter. He knows, he's been there. His son is being a jackass, just like he used to be at his age. Eli accuses Olivia's niece of trying to shrink his head, of concealing the fact that she's a psychiatrist. Olivia accuses his son of being one of those old-fashioned doctors with a phobia of anything mental, anything emotional. He says she overstepped her bounds, gaining access to his father with her credentials. She replies that it's unethical for him to act as his father's doctor and that he could just have said from the outset that he was advocating on behalf of his own father, not a patient. Eli says his motivations are none of her business and that the invitation he extended was to Olivia Benson – she was who his father asked for. The younger Olivia responds by saying that she only came to tell his father in person that her aunt refused to see him.

Elliot's amusement fades. His heart falters, his ears quit listening to the argument in the hallway. And his eyes close slowly over.

Her face is murky. Never – not in all his years did he ever think he'd forget her face. Parts of it still linger. Other parts remain fluid, unfixed. Pieces of her float into place, linger a millisecond in a familiar combination he longs to hold onto, but then they keep on floating, drifting away, fleeing to the four corners of his dwindling memory. He'd need to see her again to fill in the glaring blanks caused by so many years of absence. He'd need to see her again to get her right, to fix her in place before taking her memory with him into the next world.

A tear slips out of one eye, slides down his cheek and lands with a soft pat on his pillow. Outside his room, a pair of heels echo down the hall, their swift click-clack eventually receding. And when he opens his eyes again, his son is standing over him, looking down on him with a concerned expression.

"I want to see her again," he tells him, voice rough and desperate.

Eli frowns. "What?"

Elliot persists, nodding at the doorway through which he stole Olivia. "You need to apologize to her, make her come back."

"Dad—" He sighs, shakes his head in bewilderment. "You barely know the woman."

Elliot holds his gaze. "I want her back. Get her back."

 **-x-**

The next time she visits, he's dressed and ready.

His clothes hang off him now, suspenders stop his pants from falling at his feet. It seems pointless to buy new clothes when his weight – and days – just keep steadily decreasing. So he wears a pair of bright red suspenders he inherited when Cragen died. At the time, he'd thought of them as a nostalgic memento, not a practical gift for the future. They'd been delivered along with three other pairs by Munch, who would pass away shortly afterward. Elliot only ever found out about such losses after the fact. He'd have liked to have gone to those funerals, those and others. But in divorcing himself from his partner the way he did, he also divorced himself from their friends and colleagues. Like every divorce, assets were fairly or unfairly divided. He got his family and she got hers.

He always knew, or rather, assumed that she was still alive. The job was dangerous, but if anyone was going to outlive the bunch of them it was Olivia Benson. This gut feeling was confirmed whenever he spotted her on the news, standing to one side at press conferences or guiding hand-cuffed perps from precinct doors to police car. Once, he thought he picked her out on a beach where dozens of police were combing for bodies. He willed the reporter to get closer to her, to ask her a question, make her speak to him. She didn't. And that was the last time he ever saw her.

Elliot pats his cleanly shaven face dry, examines himself in the mirror. Something he was never told about growing old was how hard it is to shave saggy, disappointed skin. Mostly, he doesn't bother. If anyone has a good excuse to sport a scruffy grey beard it's a dying man. And while he feels ten years younger having made the effort, ten years younger still makes him a very old man. He emerges at an old man pace from the bathroom in his baggy navy pants, a thin white shirt and bright red suspenders just as Olivia the Second is knocking on his door. He is sans jacket and shoes, just slippers over socks, but she looks him over with a smile.

"You're looking better."

Elliot grasps the handle of his cane and makes his slow way to the couch. "I take it my son apologized."

Olivia slips her bag off her shoulder and hovers behind him until he takes a seat. "He…tried."

He collapses into the couch cushions, leans his cane against the end table. "Eli isn't good at apologies. It's sort of a family trait."

She settles in the armchair opposite, tips her head to one side. "Is that why you wanted to see my aunt? To apologize?"

Elliot lifts his brows, eyes lighting up. "Ah, the doctor is in the house..."

She opens her mouth to respond but closes it again as an attendant enters with a tray of weak coffee and dry cookies. Olivia thanks the attendant then pours the coffee, muttering as she hands him his cup, "Not sure you should be drinking this…"

Taking the cup in both hands, Elliot sniffs its sour aroma and mumbles, "The day I stop drinking coffee is the day they put me in the ground."

She picks up the other cup, cradles it in her lap. "I fluctuate between tea and coffee myself."

He hums and sips. "Like your aunt?"

She looks at him from the corners of her eyes. "So _that_ you know?"

He sips again. "Oh, that I know…"

She sips her coffee, hesitates a moment then says, "I brought you something." She leans down, slips a hand into her purse and retrieves a photo frame. "This…sits on my desk at work…" She glances at it before handing it across. "That's me, my brother, Ty, my Aunty Liv and Noah." She lifts her eyes to his face before adding, "Her adopted son. We were raised together, he's like another brother to me."

Elliot studies the photo as she speaks. In it, she is maybe fourteen years old. One brother is a little older, one a little younger. The older is black with a brash smile. The younger white with a shyer look. All three sit in a row at a picnic table, elbows propped on its wooden top. As they smile into the camera, his former partner stands behind them, leaning over them, arms spread about them like a guardian angel. Her face is full and lined, her smile wide and relaxed. She looks both familiar and unfamiliar and he can't take his eyes off her unmoving face. It's odd seeing her as a mother, as part of a family. It's odd glimpsing a part of her life that he never shared.

He swallows, voice cracking as he asks, "How is she?"

Her niece's voice is quiet as she replies, "She's good. Really well."

"Is she…" his hand shakes, almost losing his grip on the photo frame, "happy?"

Olivia hesitates then answers, "…Mostly. Yeah."

Elliot nods, clears his throat then hands back the photograph. Olivia tucks it away then sips her coffee, giving him a moment to collect himself. Glancing about the room, her eyes land on a similar photograph, one also populated by young smiling faces and proud parents.

"Is that your family?"

"Yes."

She rises, moves to the end table by the couch and picks it up. Elliot points to each young face as he introduces her to his impressive brood.

Olivia nods, eyes on the family photograph. "So Elliot's your youngest?"

"By fifteen years."

"That's quite a gap." She looks at the photo a moment longer, eyes moving between his younger self and his youngest son. "He looks like you, the same…"

When Elliot looks up at her face, Olivia lowers the photo and returns to her seat. "You must have started young."

"Too young."

"Regrets?"

He humphs into his cup. "Too many to count."

She sips her coffee, tips her chin at the photo. "What about your wife?"

"Kathy passed away. Ten years ago."

"I'm sorry."

Elliot dips his head, sets his coffee aside. "What about you? Married? Kids?"

Olivia shakes her head, lowers her eyes and reaches for a cookie. "Neither. Guess I've just been… too focused on work."

"You enjoy it?"

"I do…" She bites her cookie and chews pensively. "But I would like to, you know…one day."

"Have a family?"

She shifts in her seat and he sees the change of topic coming a mile off. "So I…spoke to my aunt about you."

Elliot lowers his gaze to his skinny old knees, smiling sadly. "She wouldn't come."

Her niece crosses her legs, props an elbow on one knee. "I thought you might be able offer some insight as to why."

His smile grows less sad, his eyes start to glint. "Which one of us are you trying to fix, Doctor? Her or me?"

She waves her cookie in mid-air. "Well, clearly there's something here that needs resolving."

"And you're just the shrink to do it?"

"It _is_ my job, Detective Stabler."

His head pulls back at the tired old moniker. " _Detective Stabler_ …you even sound like her..."

Olivia leans in, eats the last of her cookie then says, "The only thing my Aunty Liv would tell me was that you used to work together. Back when she was a detective."

"We worked together." He nods, heavy head lolling weakly on his neck. He suddenly feels exhausted by her energy, her curiosity, her persistence. "We worked together…a long time."

"How long?"

"Long." He rises with as much dignity as his bones will allow. "You want more than that, you'll have to come back." His hand curls around his cane and his back turns as he begins shuffling back to his bed. "Next time…I'll make sure they bring tea."

Olivia sighs and rises, dusting some cookie crumbs from her fingers. She picks up her bag and heads for the door but stops on the threshold, her bag on her shoulder and her eyes watching him climb into his bed. A moment later, he hears an attendant pass her by in the corridor outside his room.

"He's been much more sprightly lately," the attendant says, "Your visits must be doing him good."

Olivia doesn't answer. And inside his room, Elliot closes his eyes and leans back in his pillow.

Her face is clearer now. The exact shade of her eyes, that scar on her right brow. The petite sweetness of her nose that seemed so at odds with her powerhouse presence. He remembers having a conversation with her once while on stakeout – she thought her nose was odd, he told her it was cute. His breathing deepens and he drifts off to sleep, thinking about Olivia Benson's nose and eyes and scars.

 **-x-**

"Doctor Harrison."

"Doctor Stabler."

Eli steps to one side, out of the way of some hurried pedestrians. "I was just heading in to visit my dad."

Olivia sidesteps with him, her gait less certain. "I've just come from there. I…I hope that—"

"Oh no," he holds up a hand, nods a few times, "I know he was eager to see you again."

"Well," she shrugs a shoulder, tucks a brown curl behind her ear, "He seemed to be in good spirits. Although I think I might have tired him out a bit."

Eli glances up at the hospital façade, the wind ruffling his dark blond hair. "He's more robust than he looks. I…have to remind myself of that at times."

Olivia smiles slightly then frowns. "I'm actually glad I ran into you, Doctor Stabler—"

"Elliot, please."

She nods once, "Olivia," then goes on, "I, ah…I know we got off to a bumpy start. But I would like to figure out what all this is about."

Eli scratches his temple, shakes his head. "I'm not sure I can help you out there. I know my siblings remember your aunt but I was too young."

"Well…" she juts her chin at a nearby café, lips inching into a tentative smile, "maybe we could grab a coffee? Exchange information and see what else we can come up with?"

Eli glances at his watch then stammers, "Sure. Yes, yeah. I mean…I guess I've got the time."

 ** _TBC..._**


	2. Chapter 2

Rating: T, adult themes

Disclaimer: Not mine, you know whose

Warning: See first chapter

Spoilers: "Scheherazade", "Paternity", "Child's Welfare" and probably many others…

Pairing(s): Elliot/Olivia x 2

Summary: The investigators become the investigated.

A/N: Thank you to those who read and reviewed the first chapter despite me refusing to spoil this story in the summary. To those who quit watching after Chris/Elliot left (and who could blame you?), I did not make Olivia Harrison up. She is totally a real character that Olivia (Benson) meets in season 13's "Child's Welfare" and who, in true SVU fashion, is never mentioned or heard from again. Until now.

* * *

 **ii.**

"You know, this is not the reason I became a detective."

"Sure it is. You were always a huge snoop."

"And you were always a goody-two-shoes. What's changed?"

Eli leans back in his chair, phone pressed to his ear. "Look, we just want to know—"

Elizabeth's dry voice immediately interjects. "Oh, it's _we_ now, is it?"

" _Olivia and I_ want to know—"

"Which Olivia? Your Olivia or Dad's Olivia?"

"Mine. No— neither. She's not—" He raises a hand to his empty office walls, takes a slow breath. "Look, Dad asked to see this woman. Aren't you curious why?"

On the other end of the phone, his sister hums, the ambient noise of her squadroom accompanying her reply. "Not really. I've got bigger mysteries to solve, actual cases to close."

"Liz—"

"Come on, Eli…" Her chair squeaks as she presumably sits upright, "is this really about Dad or is this just about the hot niece?"

"How do you know she's hot?"

"Wow. You walked right into that one."

"Hey. Quit using your sneaky interrogation tricks on me. I never _said_ —"

"You said she was hot, Eli. And you're right." There's a brief pause, the click of some computer keys. "I'm looking at her DMV records as we speak."

Eli huffs into the receiver, swivelling his chair to face the window. "See? You can't help yourself, you're such a snoop."

His sister's reply is ripe with familial teasing. "And you like a pretty lay-dy."

Eli stands, drawing himself up to his full height and glaring out the window. " _I_ am concerned for our father. This is important to him. I think it might have something to do with how he left the force, why he never talked about the job."

He can hear the shrug in her voice. "That's just cops, Eli. Trust me, I know."

"You know what I'm talking about, Liz." His voice softens and his brows knit. "There was always something…unsaid about Dad. I'm not sure even Mom knew what it was."

"Well…" she sighs, chair creaking again, "I don't know how far police records are going to get you but I'll see what I can dig up."

"Thanks."

"Yeah. You owe me," she mutters before reverting to the mocking tone he endured so much of in his youth. "Now go tell the pretty lady you like her."

"Shut up."

His sister persists, tone incredulous. "Good God, Eli, when was the last time you even dated someone _let alone_ —"

"I'm hanging up now."

Eli plonks the receiver back in its cradle and stares out the window a moment longer. Then he shrugs on his white coat and moves to the door to greet his next patient.

 **-x-**

Noah enters just as she's taking a box down from the bookcase. Olivia turns, hisses _close the door_ then kneels on the floor to open the box. Noah obeys calmly, easing the bedroom door shut then moving to sit on the corner of his mother's bed.

"What're you doing?"

"Rifling through Aunty Liv's stuff," Olivia replies, handing him a clutch of photos to investigate.

"Uh." Noah just glances at the top photo then lowers the pile to his lap. "Why?"

Olivia doesn't look up. "You ever heard her mention a guy called Elliot Stabler?"

He shrugs. "No. Perp or vic?"

"Neither," she mutters, leafing through a few more photos before pausing on one, pulling it out of the eclectic collection. "You ever seen this guy before?"

She holds it out and Noah leans in to examine it. "Nope." He leans back again. "Why? Is it important?"

Olivia turns the photo around to look at it. "Yes. But I don't know why."

"Come on." Her brother rises from the bed and hands back his half of the secret stash of photos. "Mom says lunch is ready."

"'Kay…" she takes his photos, begins sifting through them. "Tell her I'll be right there…"

Noah heads for the door, puts a hand on the doorknob. "… _Liv_."

She looks up, eyes wide. "What? I'll be right there."

Noah opens the door and slips out, muttering, "She better not find you in here…"

Olivia reaches the bottom of the second pile of photos and sighs. Returning the pictures, letters and mementos to the box, she slots the lid on top then rises to tuck it back in its furtive little spot on her aunt's bookshelf. She glances at the one photo she discovered, slips it into her pocket and heads for the door.

 **-x-**

She waits until the waiter has taken their order before sliding the photo across the table.

In it, her aunt has bobbed, brown hair and a far less jaded pair of eyes. Her face is unlined though her features remain familiar, instantly recognizable. She wears a blue shirt and black slacks both of which look simultaneously crisp and crumpled. Her gaze is fixed on the man standing opposite her, a man with an impressively solid physique. Any other woman would feel intimidated by that physique, by such height and bulk and power. Or by the intense stare he's levelling at her. But her aunt's gaze is likewise fixed on him, matching his intensity. Neither of them seems aware of a photograph being taken. Both appear much more focused on some sort of private dispute, on proving the other wrong and themself right. It's the sort of interaction that makes onlookers wonder, makes them curious, makes them feel excluded from something deeply compelling. It's the sort of image that, even decades later, carries some sort of weight and tension.

Eli doesn't pick the photograph up. He just leans over and examines it, like a cautious researcher tilting toward a microscope.

"I reckon they look about our age here."

"About that, yeah…" He touches the dog-eared corner of the photograph with two fingers. "Your aunt is…um…"

Olivia lifts her brows. "What?"

Eli looks up at her. "Kind of a babe."

"A babe?" she mutters. "When were you raised, the 90s?"

He straightens in his seat, slides the photo back across the tabletop. "Hey, you asked."

"Yeah, well…" Olivia picks up the photo, takes another look at it, "your dad was kind of a babe as well. Back in the day…" she shakes her head, purses her lips, "Look at those pecs…"

"You know," Eli clears his throat, thanks the waiter as he places a coffee cup in front of him, "some women…don't find that pumped up look so appealing."

Setting the photograph to one side, Olivia draws her tea cup closer. "Then some women are lyin'." She lifts the cup to her lips but asks before sipping, "So what did you find out?"

Eli shrugs, lowering his cup to its saucer. "Not much more than we already knew. Lizzie says they were partnered together for thirteen years."

"Long time."

"Especially at SVU. Or so I'm told." He leans in, plants his elbows on the table. "They worked some horrendous cases that I apparently don't want to know the details of. They had a high case closure rate and a solid reputation amongst their peers."

She blinks at him, waits a moment. "That's it…?"

He shrugs. "All she wrote."

"Hmm." Olivia sips her tea, glances about the quiet coffeehouse. "Well, I guess we'll just have to talk about something else."

Eli hesitates. He glances down at his full coffee cup then smiles. "Guess so."

 **-x-**

When they enter his father's room, it's full of people. He forgot it was Maureen's day to visit. Their father is stationed on the couch, enveloped by kids, trying to conduct several conversations at once. His eldest sister stands by the door, arms resolutely folded, jaw set and brow creased. The second they appear, she rounds on the two of them, demanding in a whisper:

"Can I please speak with you a moment?"

Eli begins to gesture at Olivia. "Maureen, this is—"

"I know who she is," Maureen says, voice harsh but hushed. "Maybe she'd like to join us in the hall."

Eli glances at Olivia, feels her follow him away from the threshold of his father's room. He can feel her hesitation, can feel his own trepidation, but they both trail Maureen down the corridor, out of earshot of their father and her children. When his sister is satisfied by the distance – or when she can no longer hold in her wrath – she turns around and hisses:

" _Don't_ — bring that woman back into our lives."

Eli blinks at her. "What— woman?"

Maureen casts a deliberate glance at his silent companion. "Olivia Benson ruined my parent's marriage. She has no business being here, this is a time for _family_."

Eli frowns, stepping a little closer. "Wait a second—"

"Elizabeth told me everything," she interjects with a decisive sweep with her hand.

Eli opens his mouth to respond. But Olivia touches his arm with the tips of her fingers. "Elliot. Your sister's right."

She moves past the two of them, treading lightly, moving silently. Maureen takes up her vacated position at his side, watching as Olivia turns to give him a tight smile.

"Thanks for the coffee," she murmurs before heading down the corridor.

Maureen doesn't take her eyes of Olivia Harrison's retreating back. As soon as she rounds the corner, she turns to him, telling him in a much shakier voice, "You don't know, Eli. You weren't there." Then she heads back to their dying father's room.

Eli watches her go. Then he turns and contemplates the opposite direction, the direction in which Olivia left. He lingers a moment, choosing his path. When he re-enters his father's room, Maureen is kissing the old man goodbye.

 **-x-**

He's starting to question everything he thought he knew about his family. He's starting to question how much he ever actually knew about his father, his mother and their marriage. As the youngest child, he always felt a little out of the loop, like he was the last to know everything. He always felt slightly lost in a family history that started so long before his arrival. His brother and sisters all grew up together but he was, essentially, an only child living amongst adults. He got more of this parent's time, more of his father's in particular, than his siblings ever did. And his father was a good man, a dedicated parent. But he was not a forthcoming man, not a warm parent. Eli always sensed in him a weight of tremendous withholding. He doesn't know if his siblings got a sense of that too, if his mother ever did. But he'd always felt like he was waiting for some dam inside his namesake to burst, to at last unleash and destroy everything in its path.

Maybe his wait has finally come to an end. Maybe his father's wait has come to an end, right at the end, when the strength to withhold was simply too much for him.

Leaning back in his chair, Eli studies the family portrait on his desk. It's the last photo taken of all of them before his mother passed away. In it, she is smiling. Everyone is smiling – everyone except his father. He very rarely saw him smile – really, really smile. Nor did he ever hear him really, really laugh. He always thought of his father as a happy man – happy with what he had, content with his choices. Not happy in the fullest sense, in the most passionate and grateful sense. But maybe only the intensely naïve expect to be. Maybe only the enormously lucky ever get to be. Maybe though – maybe his father wasn't as happy as he'd thought. Maybe his father wasn't ever happy at all.

Eli rises from his desk, starts to slowly roll down his sleeves. He glances at his watch – visiting hours are over. But his credentials will get him past the desk, past the scary nurses of the Palliative Care Unit. This cannot wait until later. Nothing can now. Because his father doesn't have that much later left.

 **-x-**

He slides the photograph Olivia lent him across the coffee table. His father leans forward, picking it up with an unsteady hand. He studies it with unreadable expression, the lids of his eyes drooping with sorrow.

Eli leans back in the armchair. "Who was she?"

His father clears his throat a few times, his eyes growing watery and his face pale. Eli waits for an answer for what seems like an aeon. His father knows that he isn't asking for the obvious answer, the superficial answer. They both know what he's really asking. They both know Olivia Benson was his partner of thirteen years. What he wants is the other answer, the real answer, the deeper answer. He's asking who this woman was to him, what she actually meant to him in the grand scheme of his culminating life. In the end, his father can only shake his head, unable to utter the truth aloud.

Eli pauses, gaze moving between the photograph and his father's face. "Maureen said she ruined yours and mom's marriage."

"Olivia…" his father murmurs, voice crackling with emotion, "never did anything to threaten my marriage to your mom."

He leans in, elbows on knees and eyes on the old fingers that clutch that rare image of the two of them. "But," he prods gently, "you loved her."

His father looks up, meets his eyes over the rim of the old photo. "I still do."

 **-x-**

He waits before knocking.

He's not ready to say goodbye. It feels like they've only just started. But Maureen is probably right, as Maureen usually is – this is a time when family should come first. That's what his father would do, what his father always did. Place his family first. So Eli follows his example and knocks.

He's surprised again when the door opens and immediately realizes his mistake. Olivia is a grown woman. She's a doctor in a well-established practice. She wouldn't still live with her aunt and surrogate mother. He recognizes the older Olivia, his father's Olivia, from the photo. She's rounder and softer and older but still imposingly tall and well-proportioned. Her salt and pepper hair sits in an immaculate bob and her straightforward gaze is more than a little intimidating. She lifts her brows in response to his stunned silence.

"Can I help you?"

Eli can only go ahead with his original request, flawed though he now realizes it to be. "I was looking for Olivia Harrison. Doctor…Harrison."

Olivia Benson frowns and shakes her head. "Olivia hasn't lived here in years." Her head tips and eyes narrow. "Are you…an old friend of hers?"

He shifts on the spot. "Ah…more like a new acquaintance."

Her head tips further, her eyes narrow further. "Do we…? I'm sorry – have we met?"

"I…actually don't know," he stammers before extending a hand. "My name is Elliot Stabler." When he sees her start at the name, he adds hastily, "Junior. You might've known me as Eli."

She takes his hand, shakes it loosely, gulps then finds her voice. "Yes…we've met. We—" She breaks off, withdraws her hand and lowers her gaze to the carpet underfoot. "Olivia told me about your dad. I was sorry to hear he's not well."

Eli nods once, "Thank you," then goes tentatively on, "He's had trouble with his heart for years—"

"Well," Olivia sucks in a quick breath then steps back from the threshold. "Give him my best."

She begins to close the door and he doesn't know what comes over him but he sees the solid wood approaching so he lifts his voice to tell her before the lock catches, "I think it's your forgiveness he wants."

The door stops, an inch before shutting in his face. There's a pause. Then it reopens. Olivia Benson looks more than a little rattled and he only has to know her reputation to know that Olivia Benson isn't often or easily rattled. He's one of only a few to catch a glimpse of such an exceptional sight. Not many have seen her with moisture in her eyes, with this kind of hue in her cheeks, with so many contradictory emotions crossing over her face.

Eli moves closer, lowering his voice as he says, "Look. I know he's not an easy man to forgive. But this would be your last chance. And his."

She meets his eyes, expression struggling to be stoic. "I'll think about it."

Eli nods, retreats from her door, then turns. "Ms Benson…?"

His father's long-lost partner looks at him through the opening of the half-closed door.

He takes a breath and murmurs, "You better think fast."

 **-x-**

The call comes in at just after three. The phone is at his ear before his eyes are fully open and his feet have hit the floor before he's even croaked his name in greeting. One hand reaches for the bedside lamp out of mere habit. His body is used to late night calls, routine disturbances in his sleep. It's part of the lifestyle of a doctor. And this is a call he's been waiting on for months, if not longer. Eli nods at the voice on the other end of the line then rises from his bed, telling the nurse he'll be there as soon as possible.

In the car, navigating the lit but empty streets, he wonders whether to call his siblings. He doesn't want to worry anyone or wake their kids. But this might be it. Their final chance to say goodbye. His dad might pull through, he has done before. Hearts are tricky organs though. He knows this from experience, it's why he chose his specialization. He's always been intrigued by the mysterious ways in which they react. At times, they can be so resilient, so persistent. Then, at other times, hearts will just up and quit on a person, refusing to revive no matter what amount of love and attention is lavished on them. The truth is, at this point, there may be nothing anybody can do. His father has received all the treatment the medical profession has to offer. But Nature will eventually have her way. He may get to the hospital and find everything over. His father's life stopped. His family's life altered forever. Himself, his brother and sisters parentless, alone in the world but for each other.

Ultimately, he chooses to call Lizzie. She's the sibling to whom he's closest. And, as a cop, she is used to dealing with tragedy and trauma. She's also used to late night shifts and early morning calls. When he delivers the news, her response is calm and measured. She says she'll call everyone to let them know – she says it's better they all know, even if they can't do anything, even if none of them can get there in time. There's a pause on the end of the line. His sister sighs then says:

"We knew it was just a matter of time, Eli."

Eli nods at the still, silent streets then tells her he'll call her from the hospital. He pulls up at a red light as his sister hangs up. There are no other vehicles at the intersection so he longs to just press the accelerator and drive on through. He taps his thumbs against the steering wheel instead, lets his eyes drift over the crossroads to a darkened church with stained glass windows and a towering crucifix. And, for the first time since he was a kid, Eli sends a prayer up to the heavens, begging for even a short reprieve.

 _ **TBC...**_


	3. Chapter 3

Rating: T, adult stuff

Disclaimer: See first chapter

Spoilers: "Scheherazade", "Paternity", "Child's Welfare"…

Pairing(s): Elliot/Olivia x 2

Summary: She was the woman he wasn't supposed to love and he was the man she wasn't supposed to love. But both did.

A/N: So Olivia Senior has now entered the story and, since I couldn't find a derivative of 'Olivia' I was happy to use, we now have two Olivias in the same story. This means that whichever Olivia I refer to will depend on whose perspective I am adopting as, even though I am writing in 3rd person, I am also alternating between the POVs of the four main characters. I write for a pretty smart crowd so I'm sure you guys will be able to figure it out... ;)

* * *

 **iii.**

Olivia wanders to her desk, picking up the ringing phone without looking up from the file she's examining. Before she has a chance to say her name or offer a greeting, a gruff voice on the other end of the line demands:

"Why haven't you visited me?"

Her head lifts, her eyes blink. "Elliot?"

"Senior, not Junior."

"I know. Your son has much better manners."

"I don't have time for manners," he mutters, going on to demand, "Where've you been?"

She sighs and closes the file in her hands. "I wasn't sure you were up to visitors."

"I'm fine, it was just a little heart attack. I've survived worse."

"Well, I am glad—"

"Glad enough to drop everything and come talk to me?"

She hesitates, rolls her lips inwards then replies, "I have patients."

"Ah, I see..." There's some muffled rustling over the line. His voice wanes then returns with a devious little lilt to it. "Maybe if I was a patient you would make the time. Maybe I'll tell the nurses that life isn't worth living anymore. Maybe they'll call in a shrink and I'll tell them I'll only talk to you."

"Using suicide as a blackmail tactic?" She slaps her patient's file onto the desktop in an unimpressed gesture that he can't see but no doubt can hear. "No wonder my aunt doesn't want to see you if these are the kind of games you play." She immediately regrets the retort, more so when it's greeted by a long silence.

When her aunt's ex-partner answers, his voice is low and grim. "I'm not playing games. I'm serious as hell."

Olivia takes a breath, sits down at her desk. "Look…I think this is a time for you to just rest and be with your family."

"There'll be plenty of time for rest in the afterlife," he replies, his abrupt, determined tone re-firing. "And it's Wednesday. No one visits me on Wednesday." He pauses, softens his voice to add, "No one will yell at you on Wednesday."

She licks her lips, glances around her empty office. "Detective Stabler…Elliot…" Olivia glances at the photo of her, her brothers and aunt, the one that sits next to the photo of her mother and father. "It's not really me you want to see."

"No," he admits without hesitation. "But you're the next best thing."

"I'm sorry…" she props her glasses on her head, leafs through her appointment book. "I have a full afternoon of appointments…"

"Come when you're done," he tells her, "I'll make it worth your while." Then, without another word, Elliot hangs up.

 **-x-**

"You've been seeing him every Wednesday?"

Olivia shoots her brother an irked look. "Thanks, No."

Noah lifts his shoulders, "Did you really think she wouldn't find out?" Then, picking up a bowl of salad, he retreats into the next room, to the table they eat at on the first Sunday of every month.

Olivia moves around the kitchen counter, facing her aunt with a wincing expression. "It just kind of happened…He kept calling and— then he'd tell me these stories about the cases you worked and…I admit, I was intrigued—"

"Look—" Her aunt turns away, her tone terse and decisive, "I know better than anyone how much of a magnet this man is for women with daddy issues—"

Olivia frowns. "That's not what this is about."

"You have no idea what this is about..."

"Maybe not," she concedes with a light shrug. "But…I like him. And I think you should see him. I think it might help."

Her aunt reaches for a stick of bread and begins hacking it into pieces. "Who, exactly?"

Olivia ventures closer, leans one hip against the counter. "Both of you, potentially."

"I put that man behind me a long time ago," she mutters, continuing to hack.

Olivia nods a few times then asks in a quiet voice, "Is that why you can't even say his name?"

Her aunt stops and looks at her, a warning in her tone, "Olivia…"

"Just…" she backs up a little, reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, "read this note." She holds it out with no clue about what it contains, tells her, "He gave it to me this week. Made me promise to give it to you."

Her aunt sighs, her hands stilling and landing heavily on the kitchen counter. "I don't need to read it. I know exactly what it says."

"What?"

She pauses, clears her throat then reaches for a basket in which to collect the lacerated bread. "Three words – _Semper Fi. El_."

Olivia watches her sweep the ragged portions of bread into the basket, determinedly snubbing the note she holds between them. "Well, if you change your mind…" she places the folded piece of paper on the countertop, leaving its beckoning secrets there to do their best, "he's in room 106 at St. Brendan's." Taking the bread basket from her hands, Olivia follows her brother to the table and leaves her aunt alone in the kitchen.

For a moment she doesn't move, except to breathe, her chest rising and falling with weighty breaths. Olivia closes her eyes, feels a sob rise up in her throat and a long-avoided pain unfurl within her chest. Sooner or later, she's going to look. Curiosity and longing will get the better of her, just as he knew it would. So she might as well just get it over with. Her hand closes around the note before her eyes have even opened. She finds it without looking, unfolds it with trembling fingers that can't decide whether to move savoringly slow or frantically fast. The paper looks like it has been torn from a school kid's notebook – one edge of it is ripped, the other discolored and worn. In the center of the lined page, though not adhering to the thin blue lines provided, is a message, written in a familiar but faltering hand.

It's not the message she expected. The words aren't stoic or understated. His precisely chosen words don't dodge or diminish or conceal or entomb. They tell the truth – about then and now – stating simply:

 _I never stopped loving you._

 **-x-**

She appears like an apparition, a reflection in the darkened window he's gazing out. For a millisecond he mistakes her for her niece, or for her younger self. Turning away from the window and toward the door, he expects to find her gone, vanished, just like so many other times his imagination, his memory, his broken heart tricked him into seeing her. His feet are slow to shuffle around and his hand grips his cane hard enough to make his knuckles turn white. His head swirls with whatever drug the nurse handed him an hour ago. Or maybe it was that scotch he snuck by his own lips. It makes his vision fuzzy as he blinks at her silhouette, standing in the doorway, the hallway light flooding in around her edges. But there she is. Right there. Not vanished, not an illusion – or so he believes. His heart picks up and his free hand lifts to cover the left side of his chest.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack."

He can't see her face beneath the shadows but he imagines her brows rise.

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

He shuffles closer, eyes adjusting to the light. As he moves, her face turns to one side and catches the light. He can just make out her eyes, the lines of her cheekbones, her nose, her lips. "Ah, life is cruel…"

Olivia doesn't move from the threshold, out of the darkness. "How's that?"

"Look at me…" he mutters, continuing his gradual, cautious approach. "Skinny, old, balding man—"

She interrupts and he can see that her brows are definitely raised. "Bald _ing_?"

"And look at you." He stops at the foot of his bed, loosens his grip on his cane and smiles. "Gorgeous as ever."

Olivia steps inside the room. But instead of moving towards him she takes three steps away. "I came to tell you to quit harassing my niece."

"I like your niece," Elliot replies, tone light. "And she's a grown woman, she can make her own decisions." He pauses, doesn't drop his voice or his gaze as he adds, "But it was never her I wanted to see."

"Well." She lifts her hands, lets them fall back to her sides. "I'm here now. So—" She glances around his room then up and down the length of him. "…How are you?"

He lets out a long breath, head wagging on his creaky neck. "Tired, Liv. God, I'm just…so tired."

Her stance softens imperceptibly and eyes indicate the worn green couch. "Maybe you should sit down."

"I will if you will," he murmurs, not moving from his spot at the foot of the bed.

His invitation – or challenge – goes unanswered. Olivia is here, in his room, in his presence, looking at him, talking to him. But she's clearly not ready to take the enormous leap of sitting down with him. That would indicate she intends to stay. That would indicate that she's comfortable with him, with this unexpected reunion, with their unresolved past. Elliot heads slowly for the couch, eyes on her the whole time, hoping she will follow him, sit opposite him, even if only out of politeness. She doesn't. She remains standing, spine tall and hands in coat pockets, body positioned safely behind the armchair opposite.

He sits with a bone-deep sigh, eyes closing briefly over as he falls back into the dint his body has made in the cushions. He takes a new breath, lifts his eyes to her face and asks, "You remember that case, Judson Tierney, the bank robber?"

She nods non-committally. "I remember."

He leans his cane against the end table, clasps his hands in his lap. "You held his hand while he died."

Olivia glances at him from the corners of her eyes as she turns, pacing soundlessly over the carpet. "You're not dying."

His head turns as his eyes track her. "Yeah. I am. They say it's just a matter of days."

She reaches a bureau, picks up a little jewelled elephant he brought back from the war. "And when have you ever listened to what 'they' say?" she mumbles, turning the trinket over in her hand.

He peers at her lowered face, one corner of his mouth curling upwards. "You're gonna rag on a dying man?"

"So, what?" she asks, abruptly putting down the elephant and turning to face him, "I've been called in to hold your hand now?" She tips her chin at the family photo sitting by the couch, right at his elbow. "Don't you have a wife for that? Isn't that what the whole death-do-us-part bit is about?"

Elliot doesn't take his eyes off her, doesn't hesitate to tell her, "Kathy died, Liv. Ten years ago."

A faint color invades her cheeks as she tries not to look contrite. It doesn't work. Her head, eyes and voice all drop as she mutters at the carpet, "Yeah, well…I gave up being your substitute wife years ago."

Here, he pauses – not out of uncertainty but because he wants her to really hear him when he says, "You were never a substitute."

Her head lifts and her eyes slowly blink. "Then what the hell was I?"

He smiles slightly, sadly. "You still don't know?"

There's a flash of anger, of confusion in her eyes but it's buried, muted, weary. It flares for a second then goes out, taken over by time, by age, by exhaustion. One hand waves in a gesture of dismissal and she's just about to turn away, change course, pace back in the other direction when his voice stops her. Its clarity and honesty, its unconcealed affection and unfathomable sorrow.

"You were the woman I wasn't supposed to love. But did."

She faces him, meets his eyes. Elliot holds her gaze and goes on.

"Just like I was the man…you weren't supposed to love." He pauses, voice low and soft and sad as he adds, "But you did. Didn't you?"

She stares at him a moment, the same unfathomable sorrow creeping across her face, out of her eyes and into her voice as she replies in a gasping whisper, "Of course I did."

The expression on her face, the emotion in her voice causes a corresponding reaction in him. So when he tries to speak again, the words stick in his constricted throat. "Olivia told me…you never married."

She averts her eyes, moves back behind the armchair. "…No."

"Because of me?" he presses tentatively.

She looks him the eye, head slowly bobbing. "Yeah…" she murmurs eventually, "Because of you."

He shifts forward in his seat. "And you never had kids of your own."

Her head tips in warning. "I love my kids."

"With a passion, I'll bet." He props his elbows on his knees, knits his fingers together. "But _you_ never had kids of your own because _we_ never had kids. For that, and…so much more, I want to apologize."

His ex-partner moves closer, smiling a rueful smile as she takes a seat on the armrest of the chair opposite him. "Isn't it a little late for apologies? I mean, it was all…such a long time ago now."

"So fill me in," he says with a less weary smile than hers. "Tell me everything."

She blinks at him, brow crumpled. "Everything?"

"Everything I missed out on. Everything."

 **-x-**

At first, the words don't flow. It feels strange to just open her mouth and talk to him after such a lengthy interruption in their interaction. On the evening of her first visit, Olivia sits in the chair facing the couch with a straight back and a tea cup in her lap. Then she starts with something easy.

She starts with her career – covers her progression from Detective to Sergeant to Lieutenant to Captain. She tells him about the newbies that came after him and the oldies they had in common. She tells him about Nick Amaro, about how similar to him he was. How Amaro was exactly what she needed after his departure. How he earned her faith, taught her to trust again. She tells him that Nick spent two years as her partner, another two under her command as one in a tight circle of her most trusted detectives. After a series of missteps resulting in ongoing issues with IAB though, he said goodbye.

She pauses there, glancing at her watch. Elliot watches, not having spoken a word during this update. He finds it interesting that she still wears a bulky watch on her wrist, even in her retirement. She still has the air of someone on the run, like a bird that looks like it's always about to take flight. He doesn't want her to fly away, not yet. He wants her to keep talking. He wants to keep listening – listening to her voice, watching her eyes, her expressions, memorizing each one. He watches as she lifts her cup to her lips and takes a hasty sip.

"I'm sorry, I can't stay long." She takes another sip before adding, "I…have a thing."

It might be an excuse. He knows that. She may be giving herself an out, a reason to depart from his company, from the musty interior of an old man's last ever abode. In order to goad her into staying, even a little longer, he asks in a low, dry voice, "Hot date?"

Olivia's laugh gets caught in her throat. "Those days are so far behind me it's not funny."

"Oh yeah…?" His eyes move over her face and his ears relish the fading sound of her laughter. "Tell me about those days, Liv."

His old partner meets his eyes, tilts her head to one side, sips her tea a few times. Then, seemingly reaching an internal resolution, she takes a breath and starts to tell him about her affair with David Haden, another man who materialized in the wake of his sudden exodus. It's a short and ordinary tale, summed up by the fact that her short-term lover told her he wasn't going anywhere then broke this promise mere months into their involvement.

Elliot's eyes narrow with incredulity, "He chose _his job…_ over _you_?"

She shrugs lightly. "We chose our jobs over each other. Just as you and I did."

He pauses, brows quirking upwards. "Did we?"

"David…" Olivia waves a vague hand then returns it to her cup, "lived for his job."

Elliot humphs, gaze drifting away. "Sounds like that other guy you dated, the marshal. Just another adrenaline junkie, only this one liked the courtroom instead of the field. You always did like that type..."

She frowns at him across the expanse of coffee table. "What _type_?"

His eyes cut back, fixing on hers. "The type in it for the chase. Not the long haul."

She rolls her eyes, groans wearily. "Well, the long-haul guys are so much work. And I spent my entire adult life chasing down perps."

His mouth curls up in one corner. "So in your down time you wanted to be the one chased?"

Her eyes lower to her cup. "…Maybe…"

His smile increases, his eager old ass shifting forward on the couch. "So who else chased but didn't catch the elusive Olivia Benson?"

Olivia looks up, brows furrowed and eyes dubious. "Is this really how you want to spend your last days? Going through the list of men I slept with?"

His head pulls back. "How long's the list?"

She snorts. "Trust me, most of the time I had my hands full with a career and two kids."

Elliot relaxes in his seat, spine settling back against the comfortably dinted cushions. "Well, Olivia Junior turned out great." He pauses, sips his coffee then asks, "So when do I get to meet Noah?"

 **-x-**

Several visits later, she tells him the story of Noah's adoption. She tells him about finding the little baby in a pornographer's den, about following his progress through the court, about the judge calling on her to step in as guardian. She tells him about Noah's mother, about his father, about all the complications that arose but resolved. She tells him about cradling Noah for the first time and feeling like his mother. She tells him about the joy and love he brought to her life, despite the difficulties of balancing an intensifying career with single parenthood. Then she tells him about how their happy little life for two became a slightly more complicated life for three with her niece's arrival. Little Olivia had been grieving for her mother and angry about her family's dispersal. Angry, in particular, with her endlessly irresponsible father. It had taken time – and a great deal of patience on her aunt's part – but eventually the feisty little girl adjusted to her new life. She kept in constant contact with her brother and father and began to thrive in school, setting her sights on gaining a scholarship to medical school.

Olivia's grown-up niece hovers on the edges of this conversation, speaking in low tones with Elliot's youngest son. She's not listening to them – neither is paying attention to anything but each other. Both often drop by after a full day of work in their respective offices, regularly running into each other in the corridor outside his room. Olivia's niece usually pops in, asks briefly about his health then withdraws to let the two ex-partners continue their reacquaintance. Her aunt has made a fledgling habit of visiting in the evenings, after his children and their children have left. Excepting only his youngest, who comes by nightly to help his father into bed, to check his chart and to say goodnight. And, his dad suspects, in the hope of seeing Olivia Harrison. Elliot smiles, eyes drifting over his partner's shoulder to where their younger counterparts are huddled on the threshold, deep in a conversation of their own.

"You realize…" he murmurs, voice low and slow, "my son is falling for your niece."

Olivia turns her head, looks over her shoulder for a long moment. "…Yeah…"

She turns back, meets his gaze. She doesn't have to say anything more. Neither of them needs to point out that her niece is obviously falling for his son as well. The two of them spent over a decade deconstructing the affects and behaviors of love, of longing, of attraction, of desire. Once gained, such skills never fade. And when studying loved ones, the insight such skills provide only intensifies.

She releases a breath, adding with a bittersweet edge, "Let's hope they have an easier path than we did."

Elliot nods, opens his mouth to reply. But his son chuckles – a sound he's not heard in a long, long while – then steps into the room to tell him it's late and time he got some rest. It's three against one so he's got no choice but to comply. Both of the Olivias depart as his son heads for his bed and turns down the covers.

Elliot reaches for his cane, grunting as he gets to his feet. "Did you ask her out yet?"

Eli reaches under his pillow for his pyjamas. "Who? Olivia?"

"'Olivia'? Of course Olivia," he mutters, panting with both effort and exasperation. "You like her, don't you?"

Eli nods a few times then steps close to him, reaching for the buttons on his shirt. "She's a nice woman. She's been very kind to you."

"You're an idiot." Elliot leans his cane against the bed, watches his son unbutton his shirt. "I was an idiot too." When he unclips his suspenders, Elliot tosses the elastic ends over his shoulders. "Don't be an idiot, Eli."

Eli hands him his pyjama top as he shucks his shirt. "I really hope that's not going to be your parting advice, Dad."

"You could do worse than to follow it." He places a hand on the bed for balance as his son helps him out of his trousers and into his pyjama pants. "Do you want me to ask her out for you? Women find it hard to say no to a dying man."

"Good God, no." Eli rises from the floor, looking at him with a frown of alarm. "Do not do that."

Elliot lets his butt fall to the bed, ties the string around the waist of his flannel pants. "So you'll do it then?"

Eli reaches for the cup of water and thimble of pills by his bed, "I'll…think about it."

" _No_ ," he answers with an agitated grimace. "No, don't think about— don't _think_ about it, Eli. Just—" he ignores the offered cup and thimble, reaching instead for the phone on his bedside table, "call her now."

"I can't call her now, Dad, it's late."

"It _is_ late," Elliot insists, face turning red and eyes bulging. "You should've done it _weeks_ ago. You should've done it—" He cuts himself off, shoves the receiver in his face. "What if someone else comes along and snaps her up and you miss out on your chance?"

"Okay, okay..." Eli re-offers the cup and thimble then takes the receiver and places it back in its cradle. "Don't get worked up. I'll call her."

"When?" Elliot demands, downing his pills with a big gulp. "In the morning?"

"Sure," Eli nods, voice smooth and soothing. "I'll call her in the morning."

"Good. Yeah." Elliot pats his shoulder then lies down, eyes closing as his head finds the bliss of his pillow. "That's good. Morning is good…First thing in the morning…."

His son draws the covers up to his chest then turns out the light. Elliot hears his footsteps move to the door, hears him murmur goodnight and hears the door close softly over. But as soon as the darkness descends, his eyes snap open. He's tired as hell. He could just drift off and away, not knowing for sure if he'll ever return again. But something about his conversation with Olivia remains unfinished. And he wants to finish it. He wants to finish everything. Before…well…just… _before_.

He stares at the ceiling, calculating the exact time it will take her niece to drop her off at her apartment. He can still estimate to the minute how long it will take to get anywhere in Manhattan from anywhere else in Manhattan. It's another skill from his detective days that never left him. He gives her enough time to get in the door, to pour herself a glass of wine, to shower and climb into bed. In the meantime, he tries to imagine what her apartment looks like. It's a favorite pastime of his. He remembers her old one like he was there yesterday. But he knows she's moved three times since. He'd like to see it. It's probably real nice. Warm and elegant and no-nonsense. Just like Olivia.

His eyes drift open and closed, his heavy lids threatening sleep. But when his brain clock finally hits zero, his eyes pop open and his hand reaches for the lamp. He switches on the light, picks up the phone and dials her number. Olivia answers on the second ring – she still opens with a clipped and efficient _Benson_.

Elliot bypasses any unnecessary pleasantries and just asks, "When did you fall for me? When did you know?"

There's a pause as Olivia processes his voice, his abrupt tone and his assumptive, out-of-the-blue query. Except that it's not really assumptive, not after that first conversation, not after those admissions of love that had waited forty years for utterance. And it's not really out of the blue, not after what they witnessed transpiring between her niece and his son that night and every night since her first visit. Olivia takes a breath, skips over any quips she might respond with and answers:

"I don't know." At his silence, she insists with laughter and defensiveness in her voice, "I don't know…!"

His silence continues and, over the line that connects them, he can hear her thinking, breathing, remembering, frowning.

"I don't know…" she answers eventually, tone pensive and head shifting on her pillow.

 **-x-**

He doesn't call Olivia the following morning.

Eli waits until afternoon. Late afternoon. Early evening, really.

He thinks about it from the moment his alarm sounds and his eyes crack open to the moment he finally picks up the receiver and dials. He tells himself he's doing it to please his father. Because his dad will only keep on asking him when the hell he's going to get around to asking out Olivia Harrison until he finally takes the plunge and does it. He tells himself that asking her out over the phone is the easier option, much easier than doing it in person while standing with her outside his dying dad's room. Easier than actually facing her, looking into those dark brown eyes and watching her lips open and respond. Truth is, either way, it's going to be hard. Because Lizzie was right. He hasn't been out on a date – hasn't wanted to – not since Kim left. Not since Kim cheated on him. Not since Kim gave back that diamond engagement ring he'd been so sure he wanted her to wear.

He still has it, tucked away at the back of his sock drawer. There didn't seem to be anything sadder than asking for a refund on an engagement ring he spent most of his life savings on. Although maybe there was something infinitely sadder. If he looks at his father, he can see the impossible sadness caused by inaction, by safety, by living a life that was almost, but not quite, right. That's what life with Kim would have been. Perfect on the outside but lacking on the inside. Easy enough to live with, but nothing worth living for, dying for, risking everything for. He's not quite ready for that – not ready to risk everything. But he's ready to take a tiny risk – which, for him, is pretty damn huge. He's ready to pick up his phone, dial Olivia's Harrison's number and ask if she'd like to have dinner with him some time.

On the other end of the line, Olivia pauses, mutters a surprised _oh_ then says, "Sure. Of course." She pauses again, says in a softer tone, "I'd like that."

Eli gets off the phone as fast as possible. He's red-faced and stammering and he's got what he called for. Now he just needs to find a night on which they will both be free. He needs to book a restaurant – nothing too fancy or trendy or romantic. He needs to carry on a conversation with her for an entire meal and decide whether she wants him to kiss her when he takes her home. Part of him wants to back out immediately. Part of him would prefer to take a pile of patient files home and eat take-out in front of the TV with nothing but paperwork for company. The other part of him – the braver part, the bolder part, the utterly enamored part – cannot wait for his first date with Olivia.

 _ **TBC...**_


	4. Chapter 4

Rating: T, adult themes

Disclaimer: See first chapter

Spoilers: See first chapter

Pairing(s): Elliot Stabler/Olivia Benson, Elliot Stabler Junior/Olivia Harrison

Summary: There's no way to say goodbye to someone you love so much.

 _A/N: Thank you to those readers who have left reviews. I'm not able to update this story as often as like due to work. But I appreciate you coming back, reading and sharing your thoughts._

* * *

 **iv.**

When she enters his room, he's not there. And instantly, she panics. She isn't prepared for this. She's not prepared for him not to be there. For him never to be there. She feels so stupid that she hasn't prepared herself for this.

His bed is unmade. The glass by his bed is half empty, some pills are spilt beside it, a photo frame overturned. There's still a dint in the couch where his body once sat. She sinks down next to it, places a hand on the hollowed out cushion. And leaning back into the couch, Olivia turns her head and draws his scent into her lungs. It's barely changed, even after so many years. He still smells the same as when he sat beside her on stakeout. As when he slept beside her in the crib. As when he pinned her to the sparring mat or stood too close to her in the elevator. She's not ready to lose that scent. Not ready to lose his body beside her, his presence in the world. When she lost Elliot for the first time, it was with the knowledge that he was happy and healthy, living in a world in which she'd never had any place. Her heartache had meant his happiness. That was her one consolation. But to think of him as gone – not just from her life, but gone for good, gone forever – is unconscionable. Far too excruciating for her psyche to accept.

Elliot isn't gone though. Not yet. An attendant enters, finds her on the couch with tears in her eyes and tells her that Mr Stabler has just been taken to the clinic for a routine check-up. Olivia swipes her tears away and rises. She can't see him like this – more for her own sake than his – so she leaves. As she strides to the door, she asks the attendant to tell Mr Stabler that she will visit him later.

"He'll want to know when," the attendant says.

"Just— later," she replies without slowing or stopping.

She takes a cab home, doesn't see anything as she gazes out the window. And as soon as she's in the door, she heads for her bedroom, for the bookshelf, for her little box of treasures. She suppresses it – has tried to, all her life – but she's a sentimental creature by nature. Sentimental about the few precious people she loves. She's got albums and albums of photos of the kids growing up. But the contents of little wooden box with the broken brass clasp doesn't belong in any album. They don't belong anywhere. Inside are letters from victims or their families – happy and hurt ones, grateful and outraged ones. She could never bring herself to throw any away, all seemed to deserve a hearing, a place. There are newspaper clippings of faces they never did find. A few cut-out obituaries, rudimentary details of a life she wished she could have saved. There's a medal of Cragen's, a rusty USA flag pin from Munch. Christmas cards from Fin and from Nick. A couple of pictures of old boyfriends, postcards from places they went together that she kept since she never had anyone to write home to. There's the sombre booklet from Calvin's funeral. And a pressed white rose from her mother's.

She's only got one memento of their time together, only one thing to remember Elliot Stabler by. The medallion he sent her fell off her weapon during a foot chase through the city. And, during a random fit of rage, she ditched the concise, enigmatic note that came with it. The photograph that remained had been taken by a reporter tasked with writing an inside look into the Manhattan Special Victims Unit. 1PP had ordered Cragen to give him access, to make sure that the force and squad got a little positive PR. Predictably, Elliot hated the idea. She'd spent half her time steering him and the reporter away from each other, which only irritated Elliot and intrigued the reporter. He decided to make Elliot the focus of his piece and asked her out in order to pump her for info on her partner. This irritated Elliot more. The tension between her and her partner rose, stretching across their desks, between their bodies. They were hauled into Cragen's office at some point and told in no uncertain terms to leave their crap at the door. It eventually blew over, as all their squabbles did. The reporter got his scoop and moved on. 1PP was grudgingly pleased with the profile of Elliot, the depiction of their partnership and the squad's daily struggles. The article was framed and put on display in one of the precinct corridors then later smashed by a junkie during a PCP-induced rampage.

The photograph she had never made the cut. It didn't appear in the newspaper article or in the package 1PP received for pre-approval. She probably got it from the reporter, whose offer of drinks she accepted after the article went to print. She couldn't actually remember how it fell into her possession or what she saw in it or why she held onto it for so long. But it's all she had of him, all she kept from that time. And now – now, it's gone.

The door nudges open as she's searching through the box, as her fingers are leafing frantically through photographs she's already leafed through.

"Mom.…?"

She doesn't answer, she just keeps searching – she doesn't understand where it could've gone. But then her son is beside her, placing gentle hands over hers, stilling hers.

"Hey. Mom. Are you okay?"

Her head lifts and two fat tears trickle down her cheeks. She looks into his eyes, swipes at the fresh teardrops teetering on the edges of her eyelashes. Then she nods. "Yeah. Yes…But I think…" Olivia glances down at the box, releases the pile of relics in her hands, "I think there's someone…I want you to meet."

 **-x-**

She helps him rise, holds his elbow. Elliot wobbles on his feet then finds his balance, one hand clutching his cane, the other extended. Gesturing with her free hand, Olivia murmurs:

"Noah Benson. Elliot Stabler."

Elliot smiles widely and Noah shakes his outstretched hand. They exchange _good to meet yous_ then settle at the cafeteria table, surrounded by pastel paintings and potted plants. Elliot exhales as he takes his seat, as Olivia's son sits opposite him. Releasing his arm, Olivia takes a seat beside her son, both Bensons facing him across the formica tabletop.

"So," Noah begins, folding his hands on top of each other, "my mom tells me you two worked together for twelve years."

Elliot glances at Olivia. "S'that what she told you?"

She raises her brows halfway. "Is that inaccurate?"

"More like inadequate," he mutters, turning his gaze back on her son. "First of all," he says, voice firm and exact, "we were partnered together thirteen and a half years. I knew your mom back when she was a fresh-faced SVU rookie."

Olivia crosses her arms and leans back in her seat. "Give him half a chance, he'll tell you he taught me everything I know."

He shoots her another glance. "Eighty percent. At least."

She humphs and rolls her eyes. "The world according to Stabler."

Noah smiles slightly, eyes pingponging back and forth between them. "It seems like you got on then, you worked together well…?"

Elliot hunkers in closer, lifts impressed brows at his former partner. "Kid's a quick study."

"So how come you walked out on her without a word?"

His gaze cuts back to her son, his smile falters. Elliot retreats in his seat, mouth opening then shutting then opening again.

Noah gives a tiny upwards nod. "She told me that too."

He shifts a little, clears his throat. "All of a sudden, I feel like I'm being interrogated..."

"Guilty people often do."

His narrowed gaze goes to Olivia. "What, is he a cop?"

"Lawyer," she replies with a touch of a smile.

His eyes turn back on Noah, narrowing further. "For the prosecution? Or defense?"

"I'm a defense attorney," Noah replies.

"Really," Elliot grunts.

Olivia interjects, voice low. "He's not the enemy, El."

Her son takes a breath then tells him, "I defend women mostly. Women with addiction problems, women who have lost their families, women – girls, really – who have been forced into prostitution." He glances at his mom, a small smile on his lips, "I decided I wanted to spend my life helping women like my birth mother."

"Well…" Elliot lowers his gaze, nods a few times then tips his chin at Noah's adopted mother, "that certainly makes you your mom's son."

Noah is silent a moment. He waits for three coffees to be placed on the table, for an old man to be shunted past in his wheelchair. "I hear you have children," he continues, reaching for his coffee cup. "Is that why you left?"

"No. No, I left…" He casts a long look at Olivia, sitting back in her chair, arms still folded over her chest. Then Elliot continues in a slow but clear voice, "I left because my wife got sick. Breast cancer. Stage 4. She was going to lose her breasts, her hair. Maybe her life. The only thing she asked of me was that I be there for her. Which is…more than she'd ever asked for before. She asked me to give up...my job. To give up…" he falters, eyes dropping to his cup, lips contorting with emotion, "your mom. She—" he lifts his head, pushes past the ages-old lump in his throat, "Kathy knew, you see, that…I was in love with your mom. Knew I always had been. I guess she figured…" he shrugs a little, gives a wretched, rattly laugh, "I'd get over it. You know. Someday…" His eyes travel across to Olivia and he delivers the rest of his explanation to her. "But after thirteen years…she said it was time. Time to say goodbye."

"But you didn't," Noah points out quietly.

Elliot shakes his head and doesn't take his eyes off Olivia. "There's no way to say goodbye to someone I love as much as your mom." He holds her steady gaze, adds in a strangled whisper, "No way."

Her lips part, her arms unfold. And her voice cracks as she tells him, "You broke my heart."

"I know," he nods, not shirking the pain and blame in her eyes and tone. "I broke mine too."

 **-x-**

"So tonight's the big night, huh?"

"Shh." Eli slips the mouth of his stethoscope inside his father's open pyjama shirt, pressing it against the left side of his chest.

"You nervous?" he asks, despite his son's warning.

Eli just listens a moment, the plugs in his ears and his hand shifting the cold little disc on his withered skin. "It's just a date," he murmurs absently.

"That's good," Elliot answers, taking a deep breath then letting it out. "That's good, keep telling yourself that, it'll keep your nerves under control."

"I'm not nervous," he says, listening another moment then withdrawing the stethoscope.

Elliot begins re-buttoning his pyjama top. "Where're you taking her?"

"To a restaurant." Eli pulls the plugs from his ears and slings the stethoscope round his neck.

Elliot watches him reach for his chart. "Which restaurant?"

"I'm not telling you," he mutters, scribbling some notes. "I don't trust you not to call and send over champagne or some ridiculously romantic dessert…."

"Women appreciate romantic gestures."

"I'll keep that in mind," Eli says, moving to the end of his bed and dropping the chart in its slot. "But this is my date. Not yours."

Elliot nods once and falls silent. He watches his son pick up the jacket he entered wearing. Instead of his usual blue suit and striped shirt, Eli is dressed in a crisp white shirt, a barely worn black suit and a new burgundy tie. He buttons the jacket, takes off his stethoscope then glances about. He looks a little lost without his white coat and the paraphernalia of his profession. He looks younger too, one lock of hair falling recklessly out of his freshly combed hair.

Elliot watches him move to the door, patting his pockets. "Eli."

Eli turns at the door, looks back at him sitting on the edge of his bed.

Elliot nods then smiles. "Enjoy."

 **-x-**

He's halfway through his anecdote when Olivia stops on the pavement, turns and says:

"This is me."

"Oh—" Eli halts, glancing up at the brownstone they've arrived at.

He kind of wants to finish his anecdote, wants to know what her reaction will be. The night's gone too fast for him. He doesn't want their date to end just yet. He's not ready to say goodnight, not ready to leave her presence and feel the obligatory anxiety set in. It's gone pretty well. For a first date. And in his limited experience. The only other person he's ever dated is Kim and that was way back in college. She was just a teenager then, both of them were. Olivia Harrison is a full-grown woman. A woman with an interesting mind, an easy smile and an empathy in her eyes he finds difficult to resist. He'd barely shut up all night. Talking to her seemed effortless. It felt natural, good, exciting – he actually _wanted_ to do it. He told Olivia about Kim over appetizers and, once that was out of the way, he could breathe easy, give her his full attention, enjoy their date. And he had, he'd enjoyed every minute. So much so that he wasn't at all prepared for it to come to such an abrupt end. He wasn't prepared to face that inevitable moment on her stoop where he assumed he was either supposed to suggest another date. Or kiss her.

Eli glances up at her building again, stalling with, "Nice…spot."

Olivia nods, hugs her coat about her. "Would you like to come up for a coffee?"

His gaze returns to her face and she seems to have moved closer. Eli steps back, bows his head. "I…really like you, Olivia." His words sound simple, exposing, even to his own ears. And under any other circumstances he'd laugh at them. Or not say them. But with her, he feels compelled to voice them, comfortable even. He meets her eyes, tells her simply, "But I…I'd like to take this slow. If that's okay with you."

Olivia smiles at him, her cheeks pink with the cold. "That's okay with me." She blinks a few times then presses her lips together in a barely suppressed smirk, "Although you could still come up because, when I said coffee, I actually did mean coffee."

"Oh." He lets out a laughing breath, bobs his head a few times and listens to the sound of her light responding laugh. "Okay. Then yeah. Coffee…" he moves a little closer, eyes roving briefly over her face, "coffee would be good."

"Good. Now—" she turns to the steps, pulls a set of keys from her pocket, "you were saying?"

Eli takes a breath and resumes his anecdote, one hand landing on the base of her spine as together they ascend the steps.

 **-x-**

"How was the date?"

Her forehead hits the pillow. "Oh my God, what time is it?"

"Seven am. Almost."

"On a _Sunday_."

"So how'd it go? Was my son an idiot?"

Olivia rolls onto her back, eyes closed, voice lethargic and phone pressed to her ear. "Your son was a perfect gentleman."

"Idiot. He didn't even kiss you?"

"I am _not_ talking about that with you."

"Why? Is he there?"

Eyes cracking open, she pushes herself up the bed, leans back against the headboard. " _No,_ he's not _here_."

"Tell him I want both of you to help me with something."

"With what?"

"I want to take Liv out on a date. A proper date."

Olivia rubs her eyes. "What? I—"

"I've got it all planned," Elliot goes on before she can answer or process or properly wake up. "I just need a little help pulling it off. I'll call you later to fill you in. Tell Eli I'll call him too."

She opens her mouth to tell him that his son isn't with her. But Elliot has already hung up. Olivia sighs and flings the phone down the end of the bed. "Well, your dad knows."

"I don't care," Eli answers, crawling back onto the bed with her. He kisses her lips then grabs behind her knees and pulls her down the bed. "I don't fucking care…" he says, covering her body with his and kissing his way down her neck.

Olivia stretches out her neck, runs a hand over his hair, still damp and curly from his shower. "He said to tell you he wants to take my aunt out on a date."

Eli pulls back and looks at her. "I think that's sweet," he murmurs before returning his warm mouth, nipping teeth and slick tongue to tease her neck then jaw then ear, making her forget all about the unfinished love story of his father and her aunt.

 **-x-**

Three days later, Olivia Benson walks into her ex-partner's room to find him standing in the center of it in a tuxedo. His shoes are newly shined, his bow tie impeccably tied. His scruffy grey hair and beard have been trimmed and his lips curve up in a warm, expectant smile. Both of his hands hang loosely at his sides, neither gripping the crook of his cane.

Olivia slides her coat off her shoulders and throws it over a nearby chair. "Who're you supposed to be?"

Elliot's chest puffs out. "Your date."

She shoots him an amused frown. "Are we dressing for the cafeteria now?"

He moves closer, retrieves her rain-spattered coat from the chair. "We're not going to the cafeteria."

"Where are we going?" she asks, eyes following his every move.

Elliot straightens, holding her coat out by the collar. "You'll see."

Olivia glances down at her plain black slacks and chunky knit cardigan. "I'm not dressed for—"

He steps closer, slinging the coat around her shoulders and tugging the lapels together beneath her chin. "You look beautiful," he says, eyes on hers. "You always look beautiful." Elliot turns to the door, offers her his elbow. "Shall we?"

Olivia slides both arms back into her coat then weaves one with his as he leads her from the room.

 **-x-**

He waits outside the restaurant after dropping them off. His dad told him to go home but he's just going to make sure…

He can see them from where he is, through the wet windscreen of the car and the slightly foggy window of the restaurant his father chose. It used to be the hottest spot in Manhattan, though he doubts it is anymore. Its fame has faded and now it is just an ordinary Italian restaurant with candlelit tables, predictable decor and an overpriced menu. They obviously still do a decent trade, mostly, he assumes, with older customers who haven't forgotten its glory days. But he can see from the car that they are seated right away, which relieves him. His dad is barely fit for a night out on the town – something he did his very best to convince him of – let alone to be left waiting at a bar for the best part of an hour. Or worse, left out in the rain until a table becomes available. As the place is only half full, his dad and his date are led to a table and promptly handed menus. He sees his dad stumble sightly, just as he's about to sit. He catches himself on the back of the chair though, recovering before Olivia notices.

Eli frowns and takes the keys out the ignition, relaxing in his seat just as his phone trills.

"Hey, what're you up to?"

On the other end of the phone, his Olivia's voice is warm and casual. She's probably finishing up at the office, checking in to see what his plans for the evening are. They've spent every night together since their first, and he's hoping that tonight will be no different.

He smiles into the phone. "Watching your aunt and my dad go on a date."

"Creepy. Want me to bring you a coffee?"

"Please."

"And a bagel?"

"Cinnamon raisin."

"And then maybe we can make out a little in the car?"

He snorts. "How soon can you get here?"

Through the receiver, he hears Olivia shut something with a muted thwack of finality. "See you in ten."

 **-x-**

He's not going to make it.

God – what a cruel joke – to be finally here and not able to make it, not even through the first course. His shoes are pinching his feet and his tie is strangling his throat. His heart beats irregularly and his armpits are sticky with cold sweat. Even the candlelight hurts his eyes. He wishes he could see past that demonic little light in the middle of the table, but he can't. If he could just see her face, he knows he'd remember why he was doing this, how much he's always wanted this. He'd feel better, he knows it. She's a blur though – her face a great big, fiery, magnified haze. He closes his eyes and reaches for her hand. It's cool in his and her voice reaches him, tugs at his insides. She's saying something – trying to answer that question he posed about when exactly she fell for him, when she knew for certain that she loved him. He wants to listen, he wants to know. She's saying something about their first year together and he knows by her tone he's missing out on something secret and meaningful. He brought her a coffee, picked up her hand while she wasn't paying attention and slotted her coffee cup into it—

Here, she stops. He wants her to continue. God, he so badly wants to know the end of her story. He wants her and only her to tell it to him. And it was helping – her voice was the one thing keeping him grounded, keeping him conscious. Suddenly, she's there beside him though. Her face is right near his, he feels her breath on his collar, her scent surround him— a second before he hits the floor. He feels cold and hot, heavy and light, everything and nothing, all the same time. She clutches his hand and he clutches hers back – he's not ready to go yet, not ready to leave her behind. He tries to say so, tries to mumble at her everything that's going on in his spinning head. But she tells him not to speak, which is okay, just as long as she keeps speaking to him. She does – she tells him his son is there and he feels hands on his chest, familiar fingers loosening his tie and opening his shirt. His eyes crack open and there are two Olivias kneeling by his side – an older one and a younger one – and that's how he knows he's truly lost it.

Elliot closes his eyes and lets unconsciousness take over.

 **-x-**

When the chaos has died down, they let her back into his room. Eli is still there – he peels some stickers off his father's chest then helps him on with his pyjama shirt. He turns as Olivia enters, as she murmurs:

"Olivia's waiting for you, Eli."

Eli nods, tells his father to get some rest then leaves them alone.

Olivia sheds her coat and slowly approaches. She comes to a stop when she's facing him, perched on the edge of his bed. Lifting a hand, she slips it inside his open pyjama shirt and lays it, flat and gentle, over his heart.

Elliot breathes into her palm, whispers a shaky, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. That…" she smiles softly, shakes her head, "that was never us. We were never…romantic restaurants and fancy food. You and I were…lukewarm coffee and stale donuts, Chinese take-out and…sodas from the vending machine."

"That's why…" he says, voice fracturing with fatigue and regret, "That's why I wanted to do this."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere just yet." She draws her hand out of his shirt, begins buttoning it up over his chest. "The head nurse has given us fifteen minutes to finish our date."

He humphs. "Battleaxe..."

She snorts and finishes buttoning, one hand lingering to worry the worn material of his collar.

Elliot takes a breath and squints at her. "There was something…you were telling me something in the restaurant..."

Olivia takes a seat on the bed, turns toward him. "Right before you keeled over on me, you mean?"

He nods, eyes on her face. "Will you…tell me again?"

She pauses, glancing down at her lap. "I'll tell you the short version." Then, leaning closer, she says, her voice barely more than a whisper yet emphasizing every word, "No matter what, or…who—" she breaks off to laugh and roll her eyes, "I did…"

Elliot laughs weakly, the two low vibrations mingling in the quiet air.

"I _never_ ," she continues when his eyes reconnect with hers, "stopped loving you. I never _will_ stop loving you." Olivia pauses and swallows, fresh tears beginning to brim. "… _Never_."

Elliot feels his heart thump in response to her words. He feels it thump again as he reaches for her. He feels it thump a third time when nothing stops his palm from sliding over her jaw to cup her face. He draws her closer, lets his forehead meet hers and for a long moment they simply breathe. Then he tips his head to one side and, with his eyes closed, he finds her lips with his. He kisses her once, lightly. Once more, more urgently. Then Olivia lifts her hands, clutches his pyjama collar and kisses him back.

 _ **TBC...**_


	5. Chapter 5

Rating: T, adult themes

Disclaimer: Not mine, you know whose

Warning: Major Character Death

Spoilers: See chapter 1

Pairing(s): Elliot/Olivia x 2

Summary: Some people never say goodbye.

 _A/N: So, as some readers will know, my stories often have lots of little buried allusions in them that I hope people pick up on as they read or that will make any re-readings richer. One allusion that is perhaps a little more obscure is that this story takes place over a period of roughly 1001 days and nights, which is approximately 2 years, 7 months and a bit..._

* * *

 **v.**

After their date, her stories become deeper, her visits longer. When he's strong enough, she tells him about William Lewis. The trauma has faded over the years so she leaves out some of the more horrific details, emphasizing her and her team's eventual, though bloody, triumph. She sits at his bedside as she tells him this tale and when she looks up from his plain hospital sheets, Elliot has tears in his eyes.

He picks up her hand and kisses it. "I should've been there."

She almost refutes him, almost tells him he shouldn't have been there, that part of her was glad he wasn't. "I…wanted you," she admits instead, letting her hand be held against his stubbly cheek. "During the trial, during the whole— You have no idea…how much."

Elliot closes his eyes and presses his lips to her palm. "I'm sorry…"

The apology irks her slightly. She's heard so many of them, he's apologized for so much since gate-crashing her tranquil twilight years. She needed apologies once – but not anymore. Olivia rises, withdrawing her hand from his grasp. "That was when I realized…you were really gone. If ever you were going to come back, it was then. But you didn't." She moves slowly around his bed, faces him at the foot of it. "So I moved on. After that, I started building a new life for myself, one without you in it. I really thought…" She hesitates, looks down at her hands on the steel railing at the end of his bed. "I never thought I'd see you again."

Elliot nods his head on the pillow. "But here we are."

Olivia draws in a breath, nods once. "Yeah. Here we are."

 **-x-**

When she runs out of stories about her own life, she tells him about cases she worked, stories of other people's lives that she did her very best to improve. She starts with the stories with the happiest endings. Then she tells him the stories with the most compelling twists and turns, knowing that his keen mind hasn't lost its taste for that elusive apex that every detective seeks. The solve. Something that will force everything else into a pattern, a sequence that makes sense. Something that will see justice served, the good vindicated and the evil punished. Something that will put the world to rights and allow the detective's mind peace.

Elliot is no longer able to make it to the couch, even with the assistance of his cane on one side and her on the other, so she tells him these tales as he lies in his bed. Occasionally, feeling drained and anxious, Olivia spends the night on the couch in his room. One nurse tries to forbid her from doing this – none afterwards dare to. On the nights that she leaves him alone to return to her own bed, she refrains from telling him the end of whatever case she's revisiting. Elliot is at his foggiest in the evenings, his eyelids drooping as she tells him about this suspect or that lawyer. If she does tell him how a case culminated, often he'll have forgotten the next morning and ask her to tell him again. Morning is when he's at his best – his sharpest and wryest and most energetic. So she starts leaving the conclusions of her stories until then, when Elliot can hear them and feel satisfied by them and ask any lingering questions his more alert mind might conjure. Knowing her story will continue the following day also makes her departures somewhat easier. For both of them.

Sometimes Elliot calls her, just as she's climbing into bed. He'll ask her to tell him how the case ended, what happened to such-and-such, whether anyone thought to pull that move he was always so fond of. From the other end of the line, he'll insist that he hadn't fallen asleep while she was talking, that he was just resting his eyes for a moment. He knows he won't get it out of her, he knows she'll insist on concluding her tale the next day. They both know that all he really wants is to hear her voice, one last time, before another day ends. They both know that he wants her voice to be the last thing he hears before oblivion claims him. They both know he wants to savor the sound while he still can. So eventually he gives up on persuading her, murmuring simply:

"G'night Liv."

Olivia smiles, exhales then answers down the phone line, "G'night El."

 **-x-**

Towards the end, she's constantly by his side. So it isn't long before her path intersects with his children. Dickie and Kathleen, having benefitted from her kindness at pivotal points in their young lives, are happy to see her. They embrace her, introduce her to their children. When Lizzie comes face to face with the legend that is Olivia Benson, she all but salutes. But when Maureen arrives to find Olivia sitting by her father's bed, her hand in his and his eyes on her face, Eli must take her aside. He puts a hand on her elbow, draws her down the hushed corridor.

"Let them have this," he whispers before she can open her mouth, before she can launch into any accusations or objections. Eli ducks his head closer, softens his tone as he tells his grieving sister, "Dad gave us his whole life. Let them at least have this."

Maureen sniffs and clutches the bouquet of flowers she holds. Then she heads back to her father's room where she greets his partner with a smile.

 **-x-**

Her stories sustain him for six months, which is six months longer than any of the doctors gave him. Elliot's body progressively weakens though, his heartbeat growing more precarious by the day. His skin sags on his bones, his hair thins out. His breathing becomes more labored, his limbs cold and weak. He sleeps for long periods, never likes waking to find her gone. She spends her days and nights sitting at his bed, holding his hand and talking to him. And one still evening, with the lights of New York glittering silently outside his window, Olivia tells him that it's okay to let go. It's okay if he just wants to close his eyes and drift away.

His head shakes on his pillow and pained eyes turn her way. "Don't want to. I'll…"

"…What?"

"Miss you."

One corner of her mouth tugs upwards in an ironic smile and one hand reaches out to stroke his face. "You'll live."

Elliot gives a feeble hum, eyes closing slowly over then opening partway. "Never…noticed that before…"

She leans closer, strokes his brow with her fingertips. "What?"

"Live..." His eyes meet and cling to hers, a paler blue in his sunken face. "Liv. You— were my chance to…live."

"You did live," she assures him in a whisper. "A good life."

"Good," he nods, eyelids wilting and voice drifting. "But not happy. Not happy. Because I didn't…" he turns his face into her hand and breathes in her touch, her skin, her scent, "I didn't live…with Liv."

"Maybe…" she budges closer, chair as close to his bed as possible and body perched on the edge of it, "maybe in another life."

He opens his eyes, smiles dimly at her. Then, lifting a hand to cover hers, he presses her palm against his cheek. "I'm Catholic. I don't believe in other lives."

"Well, who knows," she murmurs, one thumb running over his lips, "maybe God will make an exception in our case."

Elliot's smile turns sad, the lines around his eyes wane with realization, with yearning, with a final and quiet panic. "I love you," he says, voice hoarse and eyes full.

"I love you," she answers, tears finally releasing and rolling down her cheeks.

He tugs at her hand and she lifts out of her chair. And, in the last major movement his body will ever make, Elliot shifts aside to make room in his bed for her. Olivia leans down, covers his lips with hers, kisses him lightly, reverently, lingeringly. Then she joins him on the bed, her body on top of the covers and his beneath. Her arms wrap around him and his around her. His cool forehead rests against her warm one and she kisses his lips once more before his eyes slide closed.

They sleep for hours. Or he sleeps. She holds him, listens to his breath, tracks the pulse limping through his wrist. He wakes once, rouses, coughs, resettles. He gazes at her a moment in the grey early morning light. Then, drawing his wrist out of her time-keeping grip, he holds up his withered white palm. Olivia slides her palm up his, fingertips meeting fingertips and palm kissing palm. Her fingers slip between his and his between hers. His hand envelops hers, pulling her arm flat against his chest and pinning their clasped hands close to his heart. His thumb strokes hers. His lips dip to kiss one knuckle. Then Elliot murmurs:

"G'night Liv."

His eyes won't close again – not until she squeezes his hand, kisses his lips and answers:

"G'night El."

His lips smile. His ears savor the sound, his eyes drift closed. And twenty minutes later, Elliot dies.

She feels the exact moment it happens, the timeless moment in which all life leaves his body. She waits until not a trace of Elliot is left in his frame then she extricates herself from his arms. She stands on shaky legs, she runs her fingertips over his face, over his closed eyes. She kisses his brow, three more tears falling onto his pallid skin. Then she presses the button to alert the nurse. She is sitting by his bed, holding his hand when the nurse comes in. She is still sitting by his bed holding his hand when Eli arrives. Her niece is with him. Olivia draws her away, puts her arms around her shoulders, whispers in her ear, leads her from the room, hands her a hot cup of tea. And when Elliot's other children start to arrive, Olivia takes her home.

 **-x-**

At the funeral, Noah stands by her side. Olivia stands with Elliot's youngest son, both of her hands clasping one of his. All of his offspring, their spouses and children stand in a line of mournful black. A folded flag is handed to Maureen and Dickie steps forward to deliver the eulogy. Afterwards, as everybody leaves to attend the wake, Dickie kisses her cheek. Lizzie shakes her hand. Kathleen hugs her. Maureen smiles as she passes by with her kids. Eli and Olivia wait for a moment with her and Noah. But she tells them all to go on without her.

Left alone with the lowered casket, Olivia steps up to the rim of Elliot's freshly dug grave. She bends, fists a handful of damp soil— but hesitates before casting it onto the wooden lid. She wants to say something. Something meaningful – something that honors Elliot's life, something that acknowledges all he meant to her. She wants to say something to the excavated dirt and the solid wood and the snowflakes just about to fall. Something that will release her, relieve her grief, place some sort of bittersweet period on a chapter of her life she thought had ended decades before. Elliot was right though. She smiles at the memory, one tear tracking down her cheek. There's no way to say goodbye to someone she loved as much as she loved him. No possible way.

So she says nothing. She just rises, extends her hand and lets the soil fall onto his casket. Then Olivia lets her tears come, lets her heart re-break as she stands alone at Elliot's final resting place.

 **-x-**

He's barely seen her since the funeral. They spent one night together and it dissolved into a take-no-prisoners argument. She'd said something about giving him space, about how they'd met during an intense time in his life and relationships formed under such stressful circumstances rarely stood the test of time. True to Stabler form, Eli had exploded. Because Olivia Harrison, while being the most competent and compassionate woman he'd ever known, was also one of the most infuriatingly elusive. He wanted her, wanted to keep her, even as she insisted they take a giant step back from each other. So he'd said exactly what he shouldn't have, exactly what he knew would wound her, push her further away.

"How can a shrink be so unaware of her own goddamn feelings?" he'd demanded as he watched her put on her coat.

He saw the affronted expression on her face, saw her ruthlessly stifle it as she walked towards him and kissed his cheek. "Take some time," she said. "I'll call you."

Then Olivia left.

He'd picked up the phone to call numerous times since. Every night before leaving work and returning to his empty apartment, he half dials her number then hangs up. This time, instead of hanging up, he calls his sister. Lizzie offers him no consolation at all:

"What did you _do_ , you idiot?"

Eli huffs into the receiver. "I didn't _do_ anything—"

"Maybe that's the problem."

"Hey, I was _all in_. She was the one who walked out."

"Is this about Kim? About her leaving you?"

"You really suck at sisterly support, you know that?"

Lizzie sighs and shuffles some papers on her desk. "Eli. You like this woman."

Eli swivels his chair towards his desk and plants his elbows on the desktop. "…Yeah."

She pauses, presses on. "You love her?"

He nods, head in his hands. "Yeah..."

"So tell her."

"I did—"

"With words, Eli."

"I—"

"Not psychic looks or, you know, bedroom activities. Not with jewellery or—"

"Alright, alright, I get it." He runs a hand through his hair, lifts his head and gazes blankly round his office. "And if she doesn't listen?"

"Tell her again."

"And if she still doesn't listen?"

"Well…" He hears her shrug, hears her pause as she shifts the receiver from one to the other ear. "At least, you won't regret never having told her how you feel."

Eli glances at the family photo on his desk, at his father's unsmiling face. Then he lowers his gaze to the smaller, tattered photo propped against the frame, the one Olivia stole from her aunt, the one that shows his father as a young man, hands on hips and eyes flaring as he faces off with Olivia Benson.

"Yeah," he murmurs into the phone. "You're probably right…"

 **-x-**

Noah watches his mother rise from the table and retreat into the kitchen with the half full bread basket. She's been doing that since they sat down – excusing herself from their regular Sunday lunch, wandering aimlessly into the kitchen, vanishing for long periods of time then returning with extra bread or salad dressing or serving spoons that none of them need. Her face remains listless, her eyes red-rimmed. He knows she's not sleeping, they both know she's still grieving. The only thing her children can do is maintain their monthly Sunday ritual and not leave her alone with her heartache. The third time his mother disappears into the kitchen, Noah waits until she's out of earshot then lowers his voice to ask his sister:

"Does she know you broke up with Elliot?"

Olivia shakes her head at her plate. "We didn't break up. We're…taking a break."

"The difference being?"

She looks up, narrows her eyes at him. "You think I'm screwing up it up."

"Don't you?" he mutters, stabbing a potato with his fork.

She swipes a hand over her forehead, her defenses instantly crumbling. "I dunno. Probably…."

"So…" Noah shrugs and pops the potato in his mouth, "don't."

Olivia sighs, levelling a stern look at him. "It's more complicated than that, No."

"Is it?"

She blinks at him, waves her knife in mid-air. "So, what? You're saying that the break-up is all my fault?"

Noah swallows his mouthful, lifts his brows. "You're saying it's not?"

She scoots forward in her seat, goes on in a slightly raised, slightly insulted voice, "You're saying – what? – that he's the best thing to ever happen to me and I'm letting my commitment issues—"

"Don't forget your daddy issues."

"—mess it all up?"

Noah reaches for his glass, takes a calm sip of water. "See, you don't need me to have this conversation."

"You're wrong." Olivia drops her knife and fork and retreats in her seat. "That's not what's happening here. And not everything has to come back to my dad."

"Okay. But tell me honestly," he leans in, tips his glass at her, "what part of everything you just said does not sound like you?" He takes another sip then plants the glass back on the table, tone softening as he goes on. "You know this is what you do. You jump into these things too fast, get yourself in too deep then pull out when you come face to face with yourself. You use your psychological mumbo-jumbo to distance yourself from whoever the poor schmuck is and to mask the fact that basically, you're shit-scared."

"Of?" she demands, after a brief, tense pause.

"You tell me." Noah shrugs and leans back again. Then, holding her unhappy stare, he adds in a low, light tone, "Take your own advice, Liv. Break your own pattern."

Olivia picks up her bread roll and starts ripping it to pieces. "How?"

"Well. If you love him," he begins tentatively, "go tell him. And don't run a mile if he actually says it back."

She stuffs some bread in her mouth, asks around her mouthful. "And if he doesn't…?"

"I saw the way he looked at you," Noah smiles and shakes his head. "That's not going to happen." Then he picks up his knife and fork and returns to his meal.

 **-x-**

She knocks and waits.

She's usually such a bold person. She gets it from her mother. From both of her mothers. Tracy Harrison was as steely as they come. And Olivia Benson never let her forget it. Both of them raised her to speak her mind, to pursue her destiny. To be unafraid of the strength in her blood. Her inherent steel and courage and audacity. All those carefully nurtured characteristics desert her though when the door swings open and her former lover stands there, his coat on, keys in hand and an unreadable expression on his face.

Olivia swallows, voice wavering when delivering a simple, "Hi."

He nods slowly, drops his hand from the door. "Hi."

She swallows again, licks her lips, takes a breath. And glancing down at the threshold dividing them, she decides to skip the compelling intellectual justification she prepared the night before and just admit the plain, unvarnished truth. "I was wrong," she says, her voice gradually gaining strength, "I got scared and screwed up. I'm sorry." She pauses, shifts in place, but looks him in the eye as she adds, "I love you."

Elliot nods again, his lips curving into a slow smile. "I love you."

He reaches for her, draws her over the threshold and backs her against the open door. Just as he's leaning in to kiss her though, she blinks at him and asks:

"Were you going somewhere?"

His mouth shrugs, his keys drop to the floor. "Nowhere now." Then his arms wrap around her, his body presses closer and his lips descends to claim hers.

 **-x-**

Two years later, they marry.

Being the independent spirit she always was, Olivia chooses to walk down the aisle alone. Her aunt watches from a seat in the front row, both of the bride's brothers sitting with her. She listens as Elliot's youngest son declares in an assured and intimate tone that he, Elliot Stabler Junior, takes Olivia Harrison as his beloved wife – for better or worse, in sickness and in health and 'til death do they part.

A few months before the wedding, she and her niece had a conversation about whether she would change her name after marrying. As a young girl, Olivia had never wanted to part with her last name as it was one of the very last vestiges of her mother that she still possessed. Following Tracy's death, there had been talk of changing her last name to her father's or to her guardian's. But she never became Olivia Marsden or Olivia Benson. She always remained Olivia Harrison, despite the sorrow and loss attached to that name. Following the conversation with her aunt, guardian and second mother, the woman that little girl grew into decided to keep her first mother's name in her professional life. In her private life, however, and for the sake of the children she and Elliot were already planning on having, she would take his name and be known as Olivia Stabler.

After the celebrant pronounces them husband and wife, the new Mr and Mrs Stabler smile at each other, hold each other close and kiss. Their guests rise from their seats and toss rice and flowers. People hug them or squeeze their hands as the newly wed couple head back down the aisle together. Olivia watches from her seat. She knows she will get a chance to congratulate the happy couple later. But for now, the two of them are whisked away to be photographed under a large-limbed elm. Some of their guests look on, reliving the ceremony, rhapsodizing over the bride's dress or the look on the groom's face when she first appeared. Others wander across the lawn in search of champagne and canapés. Elliot and Olivia chose to hold the ceremony outside, to shirk many of the trappings of religion and tradition. Marriage was something they wished to define for themselves. Their self-penned vows reflected that, as did the modified wedding rites. Other traditions demanded to be observed though. So as the lengthy process of documenting the day begins, Olivia drifts away, across the pristine green lawn, through a few more ancient elms to a lake that teems with life. It's there in the swaying reeds and the gently churning undercurrent and the baby ducks gliding by in their mother's wake. It's there in the ripples of the water and the chirping of unseen crickets and the gentle breeze that kisses her cheeks.

Standing at the water's edge, she takes a photo from her pocket. Elliot Junior returned it to her shortly after his father's death. Olivia was happy to have to back, happy to possess anything that reminded her of how much time they'd had together, of how much love she and Elliot had given each other in those early years, without even knowing it was what they were doing. It's folded now – she folded it in order to carry it with her – so a raised white crease separates their younger, static selves from each other. The image still makes her smile though. Because, God, he'd been annoying her that day. She remembered how much. She also remembered how, right at the end of that day, as she was standing in an incident room, studying a collage of grisly prints pinned to a board, he'd come up behind her and stood so close that she could smell his cologne. Elliot hadn't said anything. He'd just picked up her hand and put her favorite mug in it. Curled her fingers around that warm cup of tea, brewed the way only he knew she liked.

And that's when she knew. She was in trouble. She was falling for her partner. That's when she knew she'd already fallen so far that there was no going back, no taking it back. There was nowhere to go but further down. As a young woman and a virtual novice at real love, she'd had absolutely no comprehension then of just how hard and fast and far one person could fall for another. When it came to her and Elliot though, the depths to which they could and would fall for each other were bottomless, deepening year after year, decade after heartbreaking decade. Her eyes close as she recalls that day. And she feels him come up behind her again, stand beside her without saying a word. Take her hand in his. His presence remains with her, so strongly, so faithfully, that sometimes she can almost feel his touch, hear his step, smell his scent.

There's a movement behind her, a rhythmic swish in the grass that grows gradually closer. Olivia opens her eyes and re-folds the photograph, tucking it away before her son joins her at the lakeside. For a long moment, he doesn't speak. Noah just gazes out over the water with his hands in his pockets.

"You thinking about Elliot?" he murmurs eventually.

She nods slowly.

He hums and glances down at his shiny black shoes in the mud. "He loved you very much, I think."

Olivia nods again. "Yes. He did."

Noah gazes out over the lake another moment, quietly adding, "And you loved him."

Olivia draws in a breath. Then she smiles. "I still do."

She meets her son's gaze as she turns, as they head back up the bank. One of Noah's hands rests on her back as they stroll across the grass and under the shadows of the trees, re-joining the celebration of Elliot and Olivia's love.

 _ **END.**_


End file.
